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01-22-2017, 01:47 PM
The prince had been stunned more so in the past few weeks than he’d had in almost all his lifetime – but the grief of his father’s passing lay dormant as the walls, the fortresses, and the tasks came toppling down around them.
He remembered the days of reckoning, when the Gods plagued the hillsides, when guardians of the Rift crawled from their empty domiciles to flood them all with mayhem and torment, when the whole of Helovia had gathered in fervency, in revolution, in sedition. He’d watched them fall, dammit, they’d fallen in waves of death and demise, been ruins, been shackled and tethered and consigned to oblivion, ghostly and silent.
And now they were whole again – because of them - tricked and duped and ensnared and enticed until their unholy little granules of greed and intrigue had been snatched and tethered into this abomination. He was a part of it, so utterly bewitched and besotted with the silly whimsy of the beginning of the end; diving into reefs, exploring vast wreckage, even combing the earth for stupid bones while he should’ve just been left to mourn and grieve. The disgust curled and coiled within his marrow, surged through his veins, and he shook his head in disbelief, trying to forge and surmise what had transpired, that it was some nightmare sent to enslave them all into confusion and disarray – but they’d done that all on their own.
Even Orsino was silent, the conniving little fox incapable of predicting the ominous conclusion. Somehow, they united alongside the stature of others, some silent, some proclaiming animosities, some unwinding (even the God of Earth had been fooled, but it gave the child little comfort in knowing, in understanding, that they’d met their match with wits and disaster), some brandishing might and gallantry amidst the awakening monster of bones and rubble.
The scion drew closer to Volterra, and pondered over the lengths they would all go again. Would they attack? Would they annihilate? Or were they to be justly destroyed themselves, abolished and eradicated by the very thing they’d helped to create? He swallowed, he clenched his teeth, he bore the arms and munitions clustered together in the coils of his feral nature, and whispered to the bigger beast beside him. “What should we do?” Because Erebos had no answers, no rhymes, no riddles, no traces of comprehension left except that vileness and atrocities needed to be paid, even if they’d managed to conjure it by their own graces and convictions.
[talks to @Volterra while Heather sits here stunned and dumb]
He remembered the days of reckoning, when the Gods plagued the hillsides, when guardians of the Rift crawled from their empty domiciles to flood them all with mayhem and torment, when the whole of Helovia had gathered in fervency, in revolution, in sedition. He’d watched them fall, dammit, they’d fallen in waves of death and demise, been ruins, been shackled and tethered and consigned to oblivion, ghostly and silent.
And now they were whole again – because of them - tricked and duped and ensnared and enticed until their unholy little granules of greed and intrigue had been snatched and tethered into this abomination. He was a part of it, so utterly bewitched and besotted with the silly whimsy of the beginning of the end; diving into reefs, exploring vast wreckage, even combing the earth for stupid bones while he should’ve just been left to mourn and grieve. The disgust curled and coiled within his marrow, surged through his veins, and he shook his head in disbelief, trying to forge and surmise what had transpired, that it was some nightmare sent to enslave them all into confusion and disarray – but they’d done that all on their own.
Even Orsino was silent, the conniving little fox incapable of predicting the ominous conclusion. Somehow, they united alongside the stature of others, some silent, some proclaiming animosities, some unwinding (even the God of Earth had been fooled, but it gave the child little comfort in knowing, in understanding, that they’d met their match with wits and disaster), some brandishing might and gallantry amidst the awakening monster of bones and rubble.
The scion drew closer to Volterra, and pondered over the lengths they would all go again. Would they attack? Would they annihilate? Or were they to be justly destroyed themselves, abolished and eradicated by the very thing they’d helped to create? He swallowed, he clenched his teeth, he bore the arms and munitions clustered together in the coils of his feral nature, and whispered to the bigger beast beside him. “What should we do?” Because Erebos had no answers, no rhymes, no riddles, no traces of comprehension left except that vileness and atrocities needed to be paid, even if they’d managed to conjure it by their own graces and convictions.
[talks to @Volterra while Heather sits here stunned and dumb]
Erebos
i have nothing, but then the have is not as good as the want
